


Chestnut in the Firelight

by ravendiana



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Gen, Hair Brushing, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravendiana/pseuds/ravendiana
Summary: Small domestic scene with Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	Chestnut in the Firelight

Christmas at the Dowling residence was always an overly elaborate production, more to be seen than enjoyed. The tree was chosen, set up and decorated by professionals, and little Warlock was not allowed near it all season for fear he would break the expensive blown glass ornaments. The stockings were hand embroidered, hung from decorative hooks, but if you put anything bigger than a candy cane in them it would ruin the line, so the "stocking stuffer" presents wouldn't actually go in them. Presents were there in abundance, the top things from every "most popular gift" list, and no attention paid to anyone's specific requests. The "letter to Santa" was mailed off without either parent opening it. 

On Christmas Eve the family went to church, dragging the tired cranky 3 year old with them. Since it was the sort of publicly private event that would undoubtedly be full of cameras, Harriett would have charge of Warlock herself. The family needed to look the part, especially on a holiday like Christmas. They would be out for a few hours before coming back to the house, dropping off the child, and running back out to the kind of party that was mostly alcohol and the attempt to forget their "perfect" lives. 

Until then Nanny Ashtoreth had a few free hours. She and the gardener had just finished setting up a small tree hung with soft ornaments, tinsel, and candy canes in the corner of the child's room. One of his actual socks was hung under the window, and it wouldn't dare fall down, no matter how much was stuffed into it. The few presents hidden in the next room to come out after midnight all come from the list Nanny had helped him write. Whether this was all "celebrating the birth of Christ" or "engaging in pagan ritual and gross commercialism" was ultimately irrelevant to making sure the child had a few good holiday memories. 

There was a party going in the kitchen for the rest of the staff, but no one commented on their absence. Nanny obviously couldn't drink when she would have Warlock home again soon. Everyone was just as glad of that, as they all found her vaguely terrifying. The gardener, everyone knew, was a teetotaller and they assumed the old man was already in bed. Though a few of the sharper eyed among them might have had their suspicions about those two being missing at the same time, they were also the ones quick enough to know to keep that behind their teeth.

Ashtoreth sat on a large pillow in front of the small grate in her room, getting as much warmth as she could from the meager fire. The house had central heating as well, but it was big, and old and drafty. Besides, she was used to fires as the main source of warmth and, much as she prided herself on moving with the times heat without light and a bit of danger didn't seem quite real. (She at least had practice doing without the radiation.) She was bundled up in a high necked, ankle length black flannel nightgown and thick woolen robe. Hardly scandalous attire, if a bit informal, to be seen wearing in a man's company. 

She was collecting a pile of bobby pins on the floor in front of her, pulling out the perfectly styled curls. The firelight played across the deeper red of her hair. Francis sat in the room's only chair, also pulled close to the fire, listening to her softly cursing the amount of gel required to get the complicated style correct. It was the most domestic moment they had shared in all their long years together, and it squeezed at his heart. For all he told himself he was content as things were, he couldn't deny to himself that he wanted this. Wanted quiet nights without the excuses or defenses they always had to put around any time they were together.

"Let me help, my dear." The words were out of his mouth before he realized he'd spoken. She turned, eyes wide enough behind the small dark lenses for him to catch a glimpse of yellow. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he decided. "I can brush it out for you, if you like. Since it's giving you so much trouble."

"Guh?" She answered. "Erm, that is, yes. Yes, that'll be alright." Her voice was even higher than usual. She handed him the brush as he scooted his chair forward. He felt a pang of guilt when he saw her hand was shaking slightly. He'd only been fighting this wanting openly since the night in the church, a mere fifty years. How long has she? She had never pressed, never tempted him, but she'd been holding out her hand again and again. And he inches ever closer, but still won't take it. He won't tonight either, even as he inched forward again. Where is the line between taking what they can get and torturing themselves. Will he know it before he crosses it? (Has he already crossed it?)

He slid the brush through the rich deep red of her hair. She made a sound, quickly stifled, in the back of her throat. He'd always loved her hair, so vibrant and alive, the way she expresses herself with it. He's never changed the way he wears his in all his years, hers seems to be in a constant state of flux. Stasis and motion, like so many things with them. She was leaning into the brush, her hair already softening. The brush was miraculously good at cleaning all the gel and other products out of it.

"Have I ever told you how lovely I think your hair is?" He knew he had never dared such a thing before. "The color of fresh roasted chestnuts." She laughed unsteadily.

"Always comes back to food with you, doesn't it, Angel?" Her voice was soft, as if she was afraid to break some spell on them, for all that her words were teasing. He laughed too, letting the gibe pass. She sat so close to his knee, but didn't lean the rest of the way in. He drew the brush through her hair, but held his fingers back from running through the ruby strands without it's protection. He remembered when it had been long and free, a riotous tumble that drew the eye like iron to a load-stone. Or when it was held in intricate braids, or held in even more elaborate loops and twirls, all as fashion dictated. He remembered it shorn short and fine and how he'd longed to run his nails through it.

They sat there before the fire, waiting for their boy to come home, and let themselves come as close as they dared to everything they wanted. They let the stolen hours pass, stealing a closeness they could never afford.


End file.
